


Fata Organa

by kentuckybarnes (hannah_jpg)



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Honeymoon gone wild, Reader Insert, Telepathy, surprise mission, you guessed it - telepathic!Reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-08-05 22:32:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16376237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannah_jpg/pseuds/kentuckybarnes
Summary: You and Bucky have spent a lazy two weeks at Tony’s villa in Monaco. Bucky suggests a night out, and you aren’t entirely sold. Then the tables turn (pun intended).





	1. Chapter 1

**Fata Organa**   
_n. a flash of real emotion glimpsed in someone sitting across the room, idly locked in the middle of some group conversation, their eyes glinting with vulnerability or quiet anticipation or cosmic boredom—as if you could see backstage through a gap in the curtains, watching stagehands holding their ropes at the ready, actors in costume mouthing their lines, fragments of bizarre sets waiting for some other production._

Spreading your fingers along the marble railing of the balcony, you let your eyes wander across Port Hercule as the late afternoon sun glistens a thousand colors against the lazy swells of the sea. Dozens of small, white fishing boats are gliding into the port, and the twinkles from distant buildings on the hills are the first sign of nightfall. There are strains of music from nearby cafes, just audible over the rush of faraway traffic.

Tony really knew how to pick a view.

"You out here daydreaming?"

A shiver crawls up your spine, and you smile lazily to yourself as you feel Bucky's arms wind around your waist from behind. His nose buries in the sweet spot on the back of your neck along your hairline, and you feel his body behind yours heave in a low, contented exhale.

"Maybe a little," you admit, trailing your fingertips along the ridges of his metal arm. "I'm not sure I want to leave."

"Me neither. But I don't want to be here when Tony and Pepper arrive in two days to celebrate her birthday, so . . . "

You laugh a little, spinning around in his arms so that you can reach up to tangle your fingers in Bucky's loose hair. He's grinning, which he's been doing an awful lot of lately, and the deepening sunset is darkening his eyes to a rich navy blue. You could drown in them, and happily.

"It's our last night," Bucky says after a moment. "What do you say to hitting the town?"

"I dunno, I've liked just staying here."

"And when we go home, and everyone asks how we liked Monaco…" He trails off, a single brow lifting expectantly.

"We can say we liked it fine," you say with a shrug. "No one needs to know we didn't see any of it besides the airport and the villa."

Bucky laughs; a deep, throaty sound that warms you from your scalp to your toes. To your regret he does pull away, tapping the tip of your nose as mischief glints in his eyes.

"We're going out. Otherwise Natasha made you bring that fancy dress for nothing."

You groan, rolling your eyes as Bucky tugs you by the hand back into the villa. He's determined. There's no use in protesting, though you try anyway, "Can't I just wear it for you?"

"Tempting." He sends a wink back in your direction. "But no."

"Are you sure? Because I know you're enjoying the thought…" you croon into his ear, tracing the muscled flesh of his arm with your fingers. Goosebumps form on his skin, and you hold back a giggle as you sense the distinct shift in Bucky's thoughts. He does glare at you then; a gentle glare, but one that clearly means,  _Get out of my head._

"Spoilsport," you tell him fondly.

"How can I spoil anything?" Bucky says with a hint of exasperation. "You know my thoughts before I do! Whether you mean to or not."

"Can't help it, baby."

"I know. Sometimes that makes it worse."

The woeful expression on his face makes you laugh - maybe a little too hard - because a scowl quickly overtakes Bucky's face, and you scramble away before you can grab you and… his intentions are interesting, to say the least.

The slinky black number which Natasha snuck into your suitcase (clearly optimistic that you and Bucky would ever leave the villa), slides onto your body like a glove. Thankfully, it has long sleeves to prevent most -  _ahem_  - telekinetic mishaps that usually come with crowded areas. While you're dabbing on some makeup in the massive marble bathroom, you feel a strain of frustration generating from Bucky in the other room.

"There's a hidden shelf behind the television," you say loudly. Silence. Then a few sounds filter in, not unlike a television being moved and the click of a cabinet door. And you feel Bucky's smug satisfaction and anticipation.

"It's not really fair that you know everything," he calls from the bedroom.

"I don't know  _everything_. Just everything that everyone else knows."

You sense his eyes rolling, his fond exasperation. You grin, spritzing on some perfume for an added touch, and pick up the matching heels and clutch which Natasha's foresight had so generously provided. Trailing from the bathroom, you spot the piles of cash on the end table and chuckle to yourself as you shove several packs into your bag.

"You'll have to share, you know," Bucky warns. He's sitting on the end of the bed, wearing a crisp white button-down and black trousers. A bowtie is hanging, untied, from his collar as he ties on a pair of very expensive shoes while grinning wryly up at you.

"Sure," you say, smiling. "I don't mind sharing Tony's money."

" _He_  might."

"Tony suggested the casino specifically; I think he's expecting a little idiocy, a little gambling. A little trouble."

Bucky laughs, straightening the legs of his trousers as his gaze fastens on your face. Then they trail down your body, and the warping, languous thoughts you feel shifting in his mind nearly make you blush. But you're getting used to it - from Bucky, at least. And you like it.

"So we don't have to stay  _too_  long," you say, lips twitching from withheld laughter.

"Guess not."

A fine compromise.

A short taxi ride later, and in the deepening purple of dusk you stride through the gold and glass doors of the Monte Carlo casino, Bucky's large and warm hand curving against your lower spine. He's mostly relaxed; apart from an instinctive tremor at the sudden noise of the casino, and the stink of too much drink from some of the guests. Some interested gazes flicker in your direction, some at Bucky, but most are too involved in their own business.

 _To the bar_ , you hear Bucky's thought clear as day. You glide beside him through the glittering, giggling patrons through the darkened room as heavy perfume tickles your throat.

The bar is crowded. By instinct, you slow until you're a half-step behind Bucky, following his larger form as he parts the mass easier than you ever could. Someone pushes, and for less than a second a body brushes up against you, their bare arm smashing into the hand carrying your clutch. At once you feel your heart rate quicken, and you whirl your head around to stare after the couple, while dragged on by Bucky.

"Mayday," you murmur, sidling your body flush to his at the bar so that you can't be overheard. Immediately you feel him stiffen, even as he hails the bartender for drinks.

_What is it?_

"Couple, eleven o'clock. Thin girl, gold dress."

 _I see them_.

You take a deep breath. It takes a good deal of concentration to project your own thoughts, and your hand clenches around Bucky's metal one for extra strength.

 _Fear. She's terrified,_  you tell him. There's a pause, and you shift beside Bucky to watch as his brows crease, his eyes flickering to the girl once more. He agrees with your assessment, and his emotions shift to darkened anger - and annoyance. Annoyance?

"Got a problem?" you ask aloud. Not too loud.

"You want to save her," Bucky's eyes train on your as he sips his drink. "I can tell. You don't hide your feelings very well when you're speaking telepathically."

Lips pouting downwards in a frown, you say lightly, "Don't  _you_ want to help?"

"I want to call the police. That sort of thing is their job, not ours."

Your fingers clench on the cold glass of your own drink, keeping your voice steady. The instinct to launch towards the girl and drag her to safety, disregarding how her companion might feel about it - is overwhelming.

"Pimps are always listening into police dispatch," you murmur. "As soon as we call, they'll hightail it out with all the evidence. We can't call the police. Yet."

Bucky's eyes close briefly. Even though you regret being unable to leave him his privacy - you can sense his frustration at the detour from the planned, carefree evening to beating up bad guys. Considering that the last two weeks the two of you had spent at Tony's villa had been completely devoid of that sort of action, Bucky is reluctant to spoil your last night. You don't blame him one bit. But…

"There will always be another night for us, Buck," you tell him warmly. "But she's in danger  _now_. And we can help."

His empty glass clinks heavily onto the table. Frustration, annoyance - and fondness. You smile up at him, catching the strain of his thoughts as easily as a firefly.

_You're too persuasive. How can I say no?_

_You can't_ , you reply, and biting your lip in concentration, you let the hopeful expectations of an afterparty slip from your mind to his - Bucky's eyes widen, and you see a flicker of his tongue as he wets his lips.

"Fine," he says aloud. "Fine! Tell me the plan."

"The best plan is the simplest," you tell him primly, mocking Steve's voice. Bucky grins. "Take me past the girl again. If I touch her longer I can get a better sense of the threat."

"Whatever you say, baby." Bucky tosses a few bills onto the bar, and then loops his arm around your waist to steer you again through the crowd. You give a loud, false laugh, stumbling deliberately near the couple. Surging forward, you grasp onto the girls arm for balance as Bucky reaches clumsily to steady your swaying body with a very un-Bucky giggle.

"That's enough for tonight," he mock-scolds you. You slur an apology to the confused girl, allowing Bucky to half-drag you away. Out of the main casino, and into hallway. The noise immediately cuts off as the door closes, and you straighten your dress with shaking hands.

 _Tell me_. His thought is sharp, deliberate.

 _Not here_. You're already scanning the corridor for somewhere more private. A few steps down, and there is a thankfully-unlocked  _Employees Only_  door, which you barrel through with Bucky behind. He closes the door, and locks it.

"You know, if you said you wanted to get me into a supply closet in the first place…" he teases. It's pitch black; the closet isn't exactly large, and you can feel his body pressed against yours. Then his hand is reaching around, and a light above flickers on. Bucky is grinning, and you know  _exactly_  what he's thinking.

"Focus," you tell him. "We have a big job ahead of us."

"...How big?"

"There are about a dozen other girls being kept here in the hotel."

Bucky's answering exhale is laden with anger, injustice - more frustration. "It's a lot harder to sneak out one girl than twelve," he points out.

"Not necessarily." You chew your lip, thinking hard. "The rest are being kept in a room - 6344, I think. Could've been 4366. They're only guarded by two men; the girls will be working later tonight." The thought makes nausea curl your stomach, and Bucky's face darkens in the shadows from the single light. You take a deep breath.

"Okay. The man who sells them off is currently on the casino floor. He's playing cards, scoping the crowd for buyers. I'm going to get into a game with him, keep him distracted; I need you to go take care of those guards. Carefully - there's plenty more around. We can't let anyone suspect anything."

"Then what, o fearless leader?"

"If we can seperate the girls from the pimps, then the police can sort it out," you say confidently. "We just have to keep them all here, and unable to leave. Does that sound easy enough?"

"Steve would be proud of you. Very simple."

"I'll settle for not getting arrested, frankly. Did you see the coat room when we came in?"

"Er - yeah."

"We've already been seen. We should probably change our look."

"Probably." Bucky glances down at you. "Did you sneak a couple pairs of comms into your clutch, by the way?"

"No - I'll…" you bite your lip. "I'll do my best to keep in touch."

"At that distance?" His brows lift, and you feel his concern and skepticism.

"I'll do my best," you snap. "Any other contingencies?"

"Yeah, how are we going to get the police here?"

"We'll figure something out."

Bucky sighs, running his fingers through his previously-coiffed hair, mussing it entirely. "I'm sure nothing will go wrong."

"Don't lie to me, Barnes. It doesn't work," you smooth down the front of his lapel. A grin forms on his face. "How about a good luck kiss and we'll get to work?"

"You know," his voice lowers, silky and smooth as his lips brush over yours. "You'd make a good Avenger. You're always getting me into trouble at inopportune moments."

"And you love it."

"Stop reading my thoughts."

After a disheveled exit from the supply closet, you and Bucky search out a service elevator which, after a few close calls, takes you straight back to the front of the casino, in a little room behind the coat closet. Though 'closet' is probably a poor term for it - gold gilded walls, and a chandelier hanging from the ceiling, and you strain your ears to listen for anyone coming.

Quickly you dig through piles of furs and sequins and expensive handbags. A red velvet jacket, just your size. A fur scarf. A beret, and a pair of sunglasses that looks like they belong in the 1960s or on Anna Wintour.

"Do you need gloves?" Bucky asks, picking through the men's jackets. You can feel his concern for you - his own fear of sensory overload making you ill, or worse.

"No," you say shortly, tossing the scarf over your shoulder. "What do you think?"

Even with your darkened view, you can see his brows raise to his hairline as he takes in your appearance.

"Eccentric heiress?" he suggests.

"I was going for 'too rich for her own good three-times widowed countess,' but I'll take it."

He finds his own sunglasses; definitely CIA-worthy, and a coiled com device so dated that it would probably make Tony Stark faint. You giggle, and quickly the pair of you whisk out the employee door to make another, much grander entrance into the casino.

Lifting your chin high, you stride through the doors with an arrogant sway to your shoulders. Many more people turn to stare this time, and you sniff audibly. Taking a dramatic pause at the head of the stairs which lead down to the main casino, you tromp down and head straight for the money exchange counter.

Bucky has already slipped away through the crowd, and briefly you regret the loss of his presence. But it's no time to worry about that.

Many more interested gazes turn your way as you carelessly toss down a stack of Tony's money onto the table. The man working there is subtle, at least. Quick as a wink he exchanges the money for tokens in a fine wooden case. Good service. With a snobbish  _hmph!_ , you turn and saunter away, box tucked under your arm.

The glimpse of the pimp you'd gotten from the memory of the girl at the bar was of a bald man; slender and bushy-browed. You find just the man at an emerald-covered table, dealing a hand of poker to two men with beady eyes, roaring with laughter over whisky and cigars. Nasty. But it's no time to be repulsed.

"Do you have room for one more?" you mock a sultry, Southern accent that immediately draws the attention of the men. Some gape at your appearance. The man at the head of the table only smiles. A security goon that lingers behind him bends down to speak quickly in his ear - and the man nods. No doubt they keep tabs on who has enough money to play at their table.

"Please," he says silkily, guestering to an empty seat across from him. "The ante is five-thousand euros."

Phew. But what else could one expect in Monte Carlo? You sit delicately in the hard chair, flicking open the box and lazily throwing a few tokens to the growing pile in the middle of the table. There are murmurs from the other men. Deliberately you tug the sunglasses down the bridge of your nose, meeting their eyes to show that you are not the least bit afraid of them.

But part of you wishes that Bucky wasn't five floors away.

You can barely sense the unique strain of Bucky, moving further up. A distant hope to hold onto. He would be fast, you were sure of it. A simple plan. In and out. But first, take the pimp for all he's worth before he rots in hell.

"Do you have a name?" the man at the front asks. His accent is definitely French accent. You simper.

"You can call me Mrs. Leighton."

"Welcome to the game, Mrs. Leighton. Your cards." He pushes them towards you. You reach across the table, the tips of your fingers barely brushing his knuckles as you slide your cards back. So far, so good.

"Can I buy you a drink?" the man beside you leans close, stinking of smoke. But you smile.

"Why, I'd love one. Thank you."

He hails a waiter. By the time it arrives, the first round has finished, and you're eager to 'accidentally' touch him, too, as you accept the drink. He's smug. Confident. Good. Only one more…

"Darlin', you have something just there - " Standing to reach over, you lick your thumb, cleaning a bit of imaginary dirt from the last man's cheek. He stares at you, but immediately you know he's not exactly repulsed. Gross.

The game's in your hands, now.

You take a deep breath, concentrating and trying to keep an aloof appearance - when really, being pulled in so many directions by so many thoughts makes your head ache. To your annoyance, the pimp's - Victor is his name - thoughts are entirely in French. Your French is pretty poor, but the flashing images in his mind are enough to get the gist. He is thinking of trying to make the cheapest deals with the men at the table; the first man is thinking of more alcohol, and the second is thinking to win as much money from Victor before offering for a girl.

Disgusting.

 _Bucky…_  you project your thought as far as you can, the strain causing sweat to break out on your back. The borrowed velvet jacket is  _hot_. Soon faint trickle of Bucky's surprise reaches you. Then he responds at once,

_Finished prepping the security lockdown. Looking for the girls now._

With the very helpful knowledge of each players hand, it's embarrassingly easy to win. You don't bet any money when someone else has an unbeatable hand; you keep track of the cards everyone has seen. And when you know you have the round in hand, you nudge little reckless impulses to the other players. More sweat is trailing down your back now, and you're gnawing the inside of your lip raw.

Telepathic suggestion is something new you've been working on. It's a work in progress - very draining, but the weary satisfaction of the casino employee pushing the enormous stack of tokens towards your place is worth it. This is the biggest win so far; the other men are growing restless and impatient.

 _Guards by the elevator_ , you catch Bucky's drift of annoyance, a flicker of pain from his jaw. He must have been hit.  _Why didn't you tell me?_

_Didn't know. Sorry._

Back to the game. Now that you're in the groove, your winnings are piling up - you sense the frustration and annoyance from the others at this. Their suspicions. But their suspicions are more of the possibility of you cheating. Of course, they are reluctant to accuse, since their own indiscretions could be so easily proven. So you sit a little straighter in your seat. Bucky has found the room with the girls.

"All in," you say, clutching your new hand of cards to your chest. Then you give Victor a massive wink. "I'm feeling...lucky."

His eyes widen. It's too much to resist - you easily have $20,000 on the table, and his token pile is dwindling. He thinks you're bluffing. You merely smile, and silently thank Clint Barton and Tony Stark for their tutelage in high-stakes gambling.

"All in," the first man states.

"All in," says the second.

Perfect.

"All in," Victor echoes at last.

They have no chance. You had known that before your bet, of course. Two pairs, three of a kind, and an ace.

 _Bucky_ , you project quickly, trying not to wince at the sharp pain through your skull.  _They're going up after this game to pick the girls._

 _On it._ A flash of pain, a surge of strength. Then,  _Take 'em out, baby._

Each man reveals his hand. Their anger begins to mount. Then Victor, hope growing with his three of a kind, turns to you.

"Did you bluff, my dear?" he asks, one bushy eyebrow raised.

"Why! I would never," you drawl back, placing your cards on the table. "Flush."

Dawning embarrassment, disappointment, and anger. But you don't need to keep tabs on their thoughts anymore; you loosen the hold you have on them with a surge of relief. You smile at the players, and wave over a casino employee.

"Take my winning and exchange them for me, darling," you order him imperiously.

"Yes, ma'am."

 _I'm in,_  Bucky half-shouts in his head, making you flinch.  _Ready?_

 _I'm ready. Pull the alarm_. And with a horrified screech, you stand at the table, stumbling backwards as your chair tips to the ground. You point a shaking finger in the table with a scream, "A mouse! I saw a mouse!"

Chaos. The men scuttle from the table as your cry of  _Mouse! Mouse!_  is taken up by several other patrons, mostly older ladies. Employees rush in your direction, and when the crowd has grown large enough to disguise you, you slip quietly away.

Then blaring red lights flash through the casino, the overhead music stopping at once as a horn blares.  _Fire, fire, fire_ , is repeated in about six languages. You laugh a little to yourself, likely an insane reaction to a room full of growing panic. There's rushing and screaming, and a surge towards the doors. But Bucky - you sure do love your Bucky - has done his job well. The doors are locked.

More screaming. That part, you could do without - the throbbing in your head from the strain of using so much telekinesis is likely to linger for several hours yet.

You walk calmly over to the money exchange area, sitting delicately on a swiveling stool as you watch various peoples shove valuables into jackets and bags, sob hysterically, etc. Eventually you sense that you aren't alone, and you smile broadly as you feel Bucky standing behind you, one hand tracing up your upper arm.

"Done," he says softly. "The girls are locked in the west foyer, waiting for the police. No one else should find them. The guards upstairs are all unconscious."

"And if all the doors are locked, how did you get in here?" you ask, tilting your head slightly to gaze up at Bucky. His hair is a little rumpled, a splash of blood on the collar of his white shirt. The dated comm is hanging down on his chest.

"I have my ways," he says smugly, wiggling his metal fingers into your waist. You giggle, breaking away. "Ready to go?"

"I have to collect my winnings."

Bucky blinks, his own satisfaction at a job well done completely stalled.

"No, I'm not keeping the money for myself," you say stoutly to his unspoken thought. "How can you think such a thing?"

"Er - " He opens his mouth to defend himself, but then he frowns, and a low growl forms in the back of his throat. "Stop reading my thoughts, why don't you?"

"Maybe. Sometimes I like what I see."

"Oh yeah?"

You blush at the immediate shift of his imagination, but a smile curls your lips all the same. But there's no time to discuss this further - the arrival of the police sends the chaos to a heightened level.

It's perhaps a half-hour before you and Bucky leave with the winnings. The wait is certainly worth it: watching Victor and his goons, along with several other man being escorted from the premises by the police brings a sense of justice that makes you feel less guilty about tucking your stolen costume into the vase of a fake plant on your way towards the foyer.

Outside, there are flashing lights from cars and ambulances. You stiffen as you feel a strain of relief and hope and exhaustion coming from nearby, and you steer Bucky towards the curb.

Thirteen girls, sitting on the ground. They'd been giving blankets to cover their flimsy outfits. And the one you'd bumped into earlier, speaking rapidly to a female police officer in French. One girl nudges another, gaping up at Bucky, and then whispers break out. Bucky takes a step back, and you step forward. Although you guess that only one or two will understand English, you speak anyway.

"You'll be safe now," you say. "Just don't run away from the women's shelter." Victims of sex trafficking are always taken to secure locations and provided for - and despite that, some always run away. Hopefully these girls will not. You tug out the bundles of money from your clutch, tapping the female police officer on the arm. She turns, and when you shove the money into her hands she immediately starts shaking her head. Thankfully Bucky's voice is loud and brisk.

"L'argent est pour les filles. Donnez-le à l'abri où ils sont pris."

The officer shakes her head, but you just shake your head back. There will be no arguing. No refusing. Turning back to Bucky, you wind your arm through his to be lead away from the scene.


	2. Redamancy

**Redamancy**   
_n. The act of loving the one who loves you; a love returned in full. The satisfaction of knowing that your heart is safe locked in the chest of another; having a foreign organ beating in your body but feeling more yourself with another’s soul entangled in yours. Coming home after a long day to be welcomed by a pair of arms and your favorite smell, taste, sound, sensation, and sight all in the same moment._

It's only a few blocks to Tony's villa, and with the traffic from the police outside the Monte Carlo you agree to Bucky's suggestion that an evening walk in the moonlight will serve better than a taxi. Hand-in-hand, the two of you meander as if you haven't a care in the world - which isn't strictly true.

"Do you think we gave the police enough evidence to take down the rest of the sex trafficking ring?" you ask.

"Yeah, I think so," Bucky says. "We can always leave a note for Tony, so he can so some follow-up when he's here next week."

"Pepper will love that."

"Just like I loved doing this for you."

You laugh, catching a glimpse of the wicked grin on Bucky's face. He's not lying, but his tone is certainly teasing. He feels as much satisfaction in a job well done as you do. His initial reluctance had everything to do with the potential spoiling of your romantic getaway, not an actual indifference to the crime. Which you already knew, of course.

"I'm glad this didn't ruin the last night of our honeymoon," Bucky says, with a sidelong glance at you. A smile is tugging at his lips. You like where his thoughts have gone.

"Well," you say slowly, feeling a warm rush tingle through your belly. "The night's not over yet."

"I like the way you think,  _Mrs_. Barnes."

With a gentle tug, his other arm snakes around your waist, pulling you close. Very close. You snake your arms around his neck, giving in to his intention as his mouth presses against yours. In the moonlight, in the streetlights, near the rather-busy roads - but you don't care. All you taste is Bucky, all you feel is  _him_. As far as you're concerned, he's the only other person in Monaco with you.

It takes much longer to get to Tony's villa than it ought. You don't mind the distraction one bit; the languid tendrils of sensation floating over you from Bucky is enough to drive you wild.

Once you and Bucky make it through the gate, he picks you up with growing impatience, and you cling to him as he takes the steps to the front door two at a time, only breaking what is becoming a very long kiss to order Tony's European AI, CATO, to lock down the villa and turn on the mood lights.

CATO, thankfully, is not a nosy or chatty AI. And Tony already had pre-programmed settings for romantic evenings.

The bedroom door crashes into the wall, likely denting it. You don't care. Bucky's body is hard and hot under your hands, and you yank his shirt open by the buttons as his lips fasten to the sensitive skin of your neck, biting down with a groan that turns your stomach with delicious anticipation.

He sets you down on your feet, his mouth roving to yours again - but he's holding his impatience in check, drawing the sensual kiss at a much slower pace. His hands are on your waist, and drift upwards...at last his fingers find the zipper on the back of your dress, and tug slowly downwards.

"Phew!" you giggle breathlessly, pulling away from the kiss. "I can breathe again."

Bucky's eyes are velvety smooth and dark as they rove over you. "Did I tell you how beautiful you looked in this dress?"

"No. But you thought it, and that's enough for  _me_."

The low chuckle rumbles in his chest, and you waste no more time tugging on his belt, pushing his trousers to the floor as he yanks off his shirt, eyes still riveted on your face with a growing grin. Then his hands are on you again - one scorchingly hot, one amazingly cold - and without warning Bucky lifts you slightly to toss you onto the bed, and then growls and leaps atop you.

Unable to stop giggling as he burrows his face into your neck, still growling, you push helplessly against the hard planes of his bare chest. The muscles ripple under your hands.

"Bucky! Bucky, stop!"

 _I don't want to stop_ , is his mulish thought.

"I can't  _breathe_!"

Immediately he props himself on his elbows above you, only slightly repentant as he smiles down at you. The welcome rush of air fills your lungs, and slowly your giggles slow, and then stop. The pull of Bucky's eyes draws you in, and you smile as you lift a hand to trace along the sharp line of his jaw, your thumb brushing against his bottom lip. He catches your thumb in his mouth, dragging the hot, rough pad of his tongue against your finger as you nearly start laughing again.

Offense at your amusement cuts through his arousal, filtering into your mind sharply.

"It tickles," you explain.

"And that's the least of your problems, baby."

You gasp as a wicked grin forms on his face, his intention causing you to catch your breath. He shimmies down your body, planting a kiss here or there, before stopping at the junction of your legs. Loud and clear you can sense his feelings, but it's his smile that has you riveted as his hooks one of your legs over his shoulder. At his first touch your eyes flutter shut of their own accord; at the second you let out a whimper; at the third, your back is arching against the bedspread, heart hammering in your chest as hot tendrils of pleasure shoot through your veins, lighting up what feels like every cell in your body.

"Bucky," you murmur, fingers clenching into the sheets. "Bucky…"

"Tell me what you want, baby. I can't read  _your_ thoughts."

This sly joke, at this moment, is all Bucky. All his humor, all his affection. You peel open your eyes to gaze at his smug smile below, and there's a hot rush of arousal at the sight. And at his own, which is overpowering his thoughts so much you wonder how he can even form words. You're certainly having a hard enough time.

Bucky crawls back above you, his eyes glinting. Without a word you wrap your legs around his waist, pushing him to his side as you settle yourself in a sitting position above him. The sensation is  _delicious_ , despite how frequently you had enjoyed it in the last couple of weeks. His lips lift into a grin, his hands travelling the curves of your hips, your waist, your breasts.

You've learned that words aren't necessarily needed, at moments like this.

You grind your hips forward, a soft moan falling from your lips as Bucky rolls his upwards. Perfect. The growing heat in your belly is spreading like wildfire; rapturous surges of hot pleasure making it difficult to keep pace. It's not long until it explodes behind your eyes into a thousand stars, and your limbs are trembling as wave after wave sends your body and mind into a sensuous lull.

Then Bucky's amusement and affection break through. You peek open one eye to glare down at him, and he begins to laugh softly at your expression.

"Is catching criminals that good of foreplay?" he teases, winding his fingers into the end of your hair.

"No," you say primly. "But seeing you in a tuxedo is."

Bucky's eyes widen. Then he laughs, louder. You're dislodged slightly from your position, and with a grin he pats the bed beside him. Obligingly you lower yourself to crawl into his arms, resting your head on his shoulder as he kisses the top of your head.

"What do you want?" you murmur up to him, tracing the hard planes of his chest with your fingers. He feels so warm, so good.

"I just want to hold you, baby."

"Fine with me." You lift your head to kiss the edge of his jaw. With a groan he shifts towards you, parting your legs with his hips. With his weight on you, your sleepy desire surges back to life. Bucky begins to nibble your lips briefly before deepening the kiss into something that curls the tendrils in your belly again.

His breath is hot on your neck as his breathing grows ragged, and your body responds to his projecting thoughts and sensations incredibly well. You moan, your fingers digging into his back as the clenching, quivering bolts of pleasure overwhelm you once more, and with a grunt Bucky slows, and then stops.

His nose nuzzles into your ear, sparking a lazy trail of goosebumps across your skin. You leave your eyes closed, content just to feel him. Every part of him.

"Should I even bother telling you how much I love you?" Bucky's low voice rumbles in his chest, and he lifts his head to smirk down at you.

"Well, I do already know," you tease. "But it wouldn't hurt you to say it out loud. Don't want you getting lazy."

He chuckles and rolls off of you, gathering you into his strong arms at last. You let out a long, cleansing breath and let the satisfaction of the evening seep into every bone of your body. The lingering headache of overusing your telekinesis does tug distantly at your mind, but it'll be better by morning. Which is good, because you have a flight in the morning.

 _I love you_ , you tell Bucky silently, feeling his jolt of surprise, and then his delight.  _I love your laugh, I love your smile, I love your humor, I love your body, I love your kindness, I love your love._

 _And which is your favorite?_  He nips at your earlobe.

_Don't ask._

Bucky is laughing again, and the world is yours.


	3. Liberosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prequel to Fata Organa, regarding how Bucky and Telepathic!Reader met.

**Liberosis  
** _n. the desire to care less about things—to loosen your grip on your life, to stop glancing behind you every few steps, afraid that someone will snatch it from you before you reach the end zone—rather to hold your life loosely and playfully, like a volleyball, keeping it in the air, with only quick fleeting interventions, bouncing freely in the hands of trusted friends, always in play._

It's raining the day you arrive at Avengers Tower. Your security clearance must have been lost in the mail - figuratively, of course, because everything Stark Industries is paperless - and so you're left in the growing storm outside while the AI, the famous Jarvis, contacts Pepper Potts to clarify that you're supposed to be there.

By the time you're allowed in, you're soaked. And not exactly in a chipper mood.

You throw off the hood of you sweater as you stride towards the elevator, raindrops splattering the fancy floor of the foyer. It's empty. Then again, it is seven a.m. on a Saturday.

"Welcome to Avengers Tower, miss." You half-jump from your skin as a cool voice in the elevator greets you. "Miss Potts will see you right away."

"Er - thank you." Is that the right response for a disembodied voice? It must be, because he responds,

"You are most welcome, miss."

Miss Potts's office is near the top of the tower. You see the view to the grey, drizzly Manhattan skyline beyond as soon as you disembark the elevator. Much better than being  _in_ the rain. And the air is warm, too. Everything is sleek, state of the art, and just plain... _cool_  as you wander into the office. You must be gaping, because when you finally pause on a fine, Persian rug, aware how wet your sneakers are, you see a very amused, but kind, Miss Potts taking in your appearance. She looks much better than you do; dry, for one thing, and her casual clothes are unwrinkled and perfectly stylish. Your jeans have holes in them. And not on purpose.

"Welcome," she says with a smile. "I apologize for the misunderstanding at the door."

"It's alright," you tell her, because there's really nothing else to say.

"We're glad that you accepted the invitation to live here," she continues. "Tony is looking forward to exploring your powers a bit more. He's read up on all your files; he already has ideas for something that can be done…"

The mention of your powers makes you flinch. But carefully you remind yourself that here you have no enemies - those in Avengers Tower have their oddities like you (expecting maybe Pepper herself), and no one will think you're weird. You're looking forward to the change.

"Let me show you to your rooms," Pepper says, and with a smile winds around the desk to guide you from her office.

Rooms? Plural?

Surprise is worming its way through your bones; the further Pepper goes on, describing the perks offered at the Tower (the 24-hour gym, the chefs on hand, the free upgrade you could have on your phone, etc.), the less you're able to respond. You've become no more than a gaping mouth by the time she's given you the tour of your rooms (yes, room _s)_. Numbly you drop your backpack on one of several upholstered chairs, and you blindly follow Pepper back out towards the common areas.

You can hear a television playing. Someone must be an early bird.

More than one someone. When you turn the corner behind Pepper, you see several bodies crammed on various couches, all smelling strongly of coffee. Several eyes swivel to you, and you resist the impulse to hide behind Pepper.

"Good morning," she says, voice ever chipper. "Our new resident is here."

Forcing a smile, you give a jerky wave. At once the faces relax, smiling far more sincerely in turn, and a tall, blond, and very broad man stands, offering his hand.

"Nice it to meet you," he says. "I'm Steve Rogers."

"Hi," you say, very eloquently in return. You make no move to take his hand, though you nervously clench your wrists in your gloved hands. In a room full of super spies, this action does not go unnoticed. Steve's hand drops, and thankfully - he doesn't appear offended.

A slender woman unfolds herself from a chair to approach you. Red-headed, and likely fierce when she wants to be - but her smile is nothing but kind. "I'm Natasha," she says. "Remind me again what your powers are? I wasn't listening when Tony briefed us."

A brief? Tony Stark had briefed the Avengers on  _you_?

"Er - telekinesis, of a sort," you manage to say. "It...mostly works through touch. So hands off," you finish with a weak giggle.

"Is it only when you touch someone? Or does it last?" Natasha asks, a curious tilt to her brow now. You barely notice Pepper slipping away.

"Sometimes," you admit. "It...depends."

"Depends on what?"

"Distance. Emotional connection."

"What - "

"I haven't really tested it," you blurt, feeling your face turn hot as you realize you had interrupted  _the_  Black Widow.

"Why's that?" This from Steve.

"Because...people don't like it?" It's a lame answer. And now you've proved to the Avengers that you're a coward. But none of the eyes on you are hostile, strangely enough. And Steve is nodding.

"I understand."

"Coffee?" Natasha asks now, smiling again.

"Um - sure."

And they don't bring up the topic of your powers for a long time.

Your assimilation into Avengers Tower is faster than you ever hoped. Your therapist had been quite correct in suggesting the company of other...unique individuals would be beneficial to the guilt and shame you've been suffering from. Although you carefully keep yourself covered from wrist to throat to toe, you start to relax around them.

But Tony prevents total relaxation. Your abilities fascinate him too much, and he's eager to test them out.

"You should practice," he informs you loudly one night at dinner. Everyone is milling around the kitchen and dining room, scarfing down pizza at an abnormal rate. You've eaten two slices. Steve has eaten two pizzas. It's both terrifying and hilarious - like most of what goes down at Avengers Tower.

"I don't want to practice," you say quickly.

"Why not? You can touch me. I don't mind."

There's snickering from Sam and Bucky at the bar, working their way through a bundle of breadsticks. You feel your cheeks heat, and ignore them.

"Tony, once I have a telekinetic connection with you, it's permanent," you tell him patiently. "I can't break it. I  _wish_ I could, but I can't."

His brows lift. "Ever tried?"

"Yes. Many times." You shake your head, wincing slightly. "Believe me, Tony. You think I enjoyed hearing the thoughts of everyone in high school that I'd touched sometime in elementary or middle school?"

"Oh,  _yuck_ ," Natasha says with a shudder. There are collective groans all around, and many sympathetic looks in your direction. You haven't been very forthcoming on your powers, and so this is new information for everyone. Impulsively you set down your glass of water, clasping your gloved hands together.

"Let me tell you a terrible story," you say. Immediately interest is piqued, and you continue, "Billy Boyer, seventh grade. My first, and only kiss. As soon as our lips touched, I saw exactly what he was thinking.  _Exactly_." You have no idea to go into the gorey details (involving your preteen self in your underwear - not something you want to bring up in front of the team).

This appears to suffice. Clint is clearly the most horrified, and Sam makes retching noises. Bucky's jaw is clenched as his eyes glitter on your face, and you see Natasha shaking her head with a look of disgust.

"Anyways, there's a reason I don't really have any friends," you conclude. "People think really nasty things. Even though they usually don't act on them - it's still hard to look someone in the eye when you know...their secrets."

"You know," Tony says casually. "I don't think I want you touching me after all."

You smile. You don't blame him one bit.

"But you should still practice."

"And how's that?"

Glances are exchanged. Tony wiggles his eyebrows at each person in turn - Natasha shakes her head, Steve shrugs. Clint won't meet anyone's eyes. Bucky is looking at the bottom of his glass. Finally Sam groans loudly, closing his eyes briefly.

"It's me, isn't it? Of course it is. I'm the only one around here without any state secrets.  _Fine_." And he stands, striding towards you with such purpose that you quail in your seat, shaking your head vehemently.

"Oh, no. I wouldn't do this to you, Sam."

"It's okay." Smiling, he offers his hand to you. "I'm not much of a secret person, anyway."

"N - no…"

"We can find this Billy Boyer instead," Tony suggests from the kitchen. At once you wrench a glove from your hand. With a deep breath, you place it on Sam's much larger one.

The onslaught of sensory input has you reeling after the last several weeks of relative silence. Mostly Sam's feelings - annoyance at Tony's non-subtlety and pressure, curiosity about you, a determination to do the right thing. Physical satisfaction from the pizza. This last one has your lips twitching with laughter, and you draw your hand away.

"Sammy has a crush on Natasha," you say to the expectant observers.

Gales of laughter fill the room - Sam crosses his arms in front of his chest as he refutes this, but you're too busy laughing along to care.

"I didn't know you were going to tell lies," he snarks at you.

"I'm sorry," you tell him, mostly truthfully. "I just couldn't help it."

"Sit back over there, Sam," Tony directs. "Let's see how what range she has."

Of course, within twelve feet is no problem at all. You explain this in exasperation, "I have a wider range than  _that_ , Tony. Why do you think I had a mental breakdown at senior prom? Too many thoughts filtering in."

So Tony sends Sam to the elevators (with an extra slice of pizza in hand to cope with the loneliness), and you close your eyes, lacing your fingers together on the top of the table to concentrate. Jarvis keeps track of Sam's progress.

"Still feel him?" Tony asks.

A strain of delicious joy of pizza, and suppressed irritation at being sent away. "Yep."

"Now?"

"Yes."

"Now?"

"Yes."

"Now?"

"Growing faint."

A pause. Then the last tendrils of Sam slip just beyond your reach, and you open your eyes. "He's gone," you inform Tony. He's clearly impressed.

"Mr. Wilson is in Mr. Barnes's rooms," Jarvis says coolly over the intercom.

"Hey - " Bucky starts to protest.

"Send him back up," Tony orders. "Tell me when you can hear him again."

You smile as soon as Sam's presence is felt. "He thinks that Bucky needs to clean his room," you offer, stealing a glance at Bucky. To your surprise, there's a faint flush in his cheeks, and quickly he looks down. Everyone  _else_ finds this amusing.

After that night, there are far more practices with Sam. Mostly they take place in the gym, where you're also tested to defend yourself from his attacks. The Avengers seem to feel very strongly about preparing for physical attacks, though you're pretty keen about  _not_ getting into fights.

First your range is tested; Sam moves further and further away as you concentrate on keeping a hold on his thoughts. This leaves you exhausted. It's like using a muscle that's been dormant all your life, and then all at once.

Quickly you discover how you can sort through the thoughts of a person, even ones they're deliberately trying to hide. The attunement to feelings also grows stronger, and to your surprise, one evening when you block an overhead punch from Sam with a bare hand, you accidently project some of your own frustration into him. At once, the usually-cool Sam huffs with anger, pulling away. A flicker of confusion in his eyes, and then he tilts his head, backing slightly away from. You merely stare back. Tony tells you later that emotional manipulation is 'pretty cool.' You aren't so sure about that.

Two other interesting things occur during this time. The first is that you foolishly try to squeeze between Natasha and Clint in the kitchens one day in your search for something to drink, and Clint's (bare) elbow finds your face in the middle of his gesturing wildly to tell a story.

"Ow!" you say sharply, rubbing your nose with a gloved hand.

"Oh! Sorry - sorry," he blabs quickly, making a move as if to see if he broke anything, but then his eyes widen in horror. So do yours. You can hear Natasha's gasp behind you, the only sound in the now dead-silent kitchen.

Oh, no.

"I'm sorry," you tell Clint.

Waves of horror are emanating from him, and you hear clearly,  _Can't you ever stop being so clumsy, Barton? Now look what you've done!_

"I don't think you're that clumsy," you say mournfully, sensing the shift of surprise in his emotions. "Just bulky."

The tension is broken as Natasha begins to howl with laughter, red embarrassment staining Clint's cheeks. You move on to get your drink, and hurry from the kitchen. Even with long-sleeved tops, pants, socks and gloves, skin was still exposed and you were ever in danger of marking your friends.

You don't want to hear their thoughts. Not one bit. Short of never leaving your room or wandering around in a ski mask, there's nothing else you can do. It's a frustration beyond measure.

The second interesting thing occurs one morning after a training session with Sam - your mental range has increased to about four hundred feet now, and you'd managed to knock him off his feet exactly one time. It's a satisfying feeling, and flippantly you bounce off the elevator towards your rooms, still in your workout gear. The only time you don't keep yourself covered, since you already have a connection with Sam, and most of the team is presently gone on a mission.

Too absorbed in your own thoughts, you don't notice the other body turning a corner the same time as you. Bodies meet in a surprised bump, and a very flesh hand reaches out to grab your bare upper arm before you fall onto your rear end. It's Bucky's blue eyes blinking at you, and immediately the sensory input of his thoughts crash into you with the same force that his body had.

He's startled. He regrets the possibility of hurting you. And something else...your lips part, dumbstruck.

Bucky Barnes...likes you. Like,  _like_  likes. Seeing yourself through the lens of his thoughts - his private memories of the way your lips curve when you smile, the dimple that flickers in your cheek, the tone of your voice in the mornings - makes your cheeks flush with heat. It's a flattering picture he lingers on; nothing like Bill Boyer in seventh grade. Though it's through a rose-colored haze, his perspective is tinged with such sincerity and genuine attachment and selfless goodwill that you find yourself without words as he drags his eyes back up to yours, dawning confusion and regret coloring his emotions as your face flickers and fades from his thoughts.

"I - " you stammer. "I - "

"Sorry," he grunts. Not one for words. But with the strengthening pull of connection with his thoughts (it's always stronger with an emotional connection), you sense the far-more-eloquent tugs of his emotions, here and there, but centered entirely around you. Affection. Tenderness. Delight. And - wariness. Agitation. Despondency. Your heart swells at the sensations, and lodges in your throat.

 _Bucky Barnes thinks he has no chance with you_.

You're still speechless as he ducks out, his head lowered as he shuffles down the dim hallway. Very nearly you call him back, desperate to crush the despondency he feels - that  _you_  make him feel - but you bite your tongue just in time. His feelings are none of your business. If he wants to keep quiet, that's his decision. You can't - you  _shouldn't_ \- influence that.

He must not have realized that he'd touched your skin. And now the link is there, nearly tangible for all its throbbing strength. You'll never get him out of your thoughts now. Not living in such close quarters, not with such feelings on his part. That darn emotional connection.

You pace your room as soon as you get there, flustered as your heart rate careens out of control. Bucky  _likes_  you.

Eventually you sit on your bed, and grab your phone to text Sam. No - you can do better. And you don't want to wait. Closing your eyes, you focus on the inhabitants of the tower who you can sense. Bucky wandering towards the kitchens, Clint in the training arena. Sam in the shower. Shoot.

You've been practicing this. You take a deep breath, and project,  _Sam -_

His thoughts reel with panic.

_Sam! I can't see anything. The connection isn't that strong._

_What the - what are you doing -_

_I need your help._ Carefully you try to withhold your own thoughts from him - he does  _not_  need to know of Bucky's feelings. Those are private. But something must have leaked anyway, because you can feel Sam's panic warping into a sly curiosity.

_Eh? What happened?_

_Never you mind. I need to practice severing the connection. Permanently._

_I thought you couldn't do that._

_I'm still not sure. But I have to try. Guess I've never been properly motivated until now._

_What happened?_  Sam repeats sternly.

You flinch, and before you can stop it, the image of Bucky's face and the patterned intricates of his feelings for you have seeped towards Sam. Dead silence, and then overwhelming hilarity. You nearly laugh yourself, Sam's humor is so strong, but you push that away with all your might.

 _I don't think he realizes he touched me_ , you say to Sam weakly.  _Please don't tell him._

_Alright, alright...I'll help you practice. But after my shower._

You pull your thoughts back to yourself, finding that it has exhausted you more than you expected; you collapse on the bed with a yawn. There is a prickle of sharp pain building beneath your eyelids from overusing your abilities. But you've got to keep using them.

But first, sleep.

With three pulls in different directions now, you find it harder to stay in the grouped company of the Avengers. It hurts your head to try to focus, and most of the time you zone out, trying to brush away Clint's indifference and annoyance, Sam's hilarity, and Bucky's...Bucky's everything. With a stronger flow of thoughts from him, thanks to his feelings for you, you recieve his bittersweet joy around the others, his longing for  _you_  and the urge to keep you from experiencing the same sorrows that he has, his never-ending flow of regret and determination to forget. There are horrors in his mind. And passions, too.

It's weirdly intimate, considering how little you've ever spoken to the man.

One night the team has gathered to watch a movie. Uninterested in the plot, you let your eyes close, and continue to practice severing the bond you have with Sam. It's tricky work; in the last week of practice you haven't managed to make any difference. He doesn't know what you're doing, of course, and carefully you search out the mental tendrils, to chip and saw and yank away from Sam.

No luck.

Frustrated, you bite your lip and you focus harder. The movie is loud, and maybe the piercing noise is partly to blame - because there's a surge of your  _own_  anger which snaps; the tendril to Sam shatters with an explosion of light in your mind and a piercing pain through your skull.

Sam yelps.

It must have created a bigger splash than you expected, because Clint is on his feet, breathing harshly as he looks around in surprise, and Bucky, nearly asleep on the couch, has jolted awake, his thoughts and eyes wild with fear.

Everyone else just stares at them. Then Tony lifts the remote, and pauses the movie.

"Anything you guys would like to share with the class?" he asks dryly. "I didn't think that scene was  _that_  scary."

"I felt something," Clint says.

"Me too," Bucky intones.

Sam's eyes are on you, blinking in astonishment. "Did you just - ?" he asks. Heads swivel towards you, and you nod. The exertion it took to break the connection has left you feeling entirely drained; you yawn, wishing the pounding in your head would go away.

"I ended it," you murmur. "Finally."

"Yeah, well, it hurt a little."

You give Sam a lopsided smile. "Sorry."

"How did  _I_  feel that?" Clint demands. His voice is loud, and you rub your temples with a wince as everyone waits patiently for an answer. You give it your best.

"When I touch someone, it kind of creates...a bridge, right? A one-way bridge, for the most part. I have a lot of bridges in my mind. I...guess I detonated the bridge with Sam, and the reverb shook yours. Sorry, Clint."

Your face is burning, and you shift your gaze to see Bucky, staring at you in wild confusion. A suspicion has grown in his mind. He's made the connection of  _his_  own feeling the 'detonation.' Oops.

"Sorry?" you offer helplessly to Bucky. He flinches, realizing that you must have read his thoughts. That there  _is_  a connection. Then, a horrific, growing embarrassment as he desperately tries to reason away that you might not have discovered his feelings for you. Your face is still hot, everyone still watching in curiosity. You wince. "Sorry again," you say to Bucky.

Clint has collapsed on the couch again, evidently relieved. And expecting you to destroy the bridge with him, too. He's feeling good.

Bucky is not.

"What's going on?" Natasha breaks the growing tension. Your eyes drift to Natasha, unable to bear the combined hurt from Bucky's feelings and on his face.

"I...accidently ran into Bucky a few weeks ago," you say, and try to smile. "I've been hearing a lot of thoughts lately."

Horror from Bucky.

Tony is laughing. "Part of me wants to know what Barnes thinks about all day, but part of me doesn't." This causes irritation, offense on Bucky's part to stiffen your limbs.

"Let's start the movie again," Steve suggests.

"Yes, let's."

But Bucky is on his feet, stomping from the room. His roiling emotions grow distant, and though the movie is on again you can't shake him from your mind. Burying your hands in your face briefly, you eventually stand to slink from the room after him.

You know where he went.

Pausing in your room you pull a thick sweater over your shoulders, you wander to an elevator to take to the roof of the tower. It's dark when you climb off; Bucky hasn't turned on any lights, and so the only thing cutting through the night are the distant lights of Manhattan. Even the moon isn't showing her face, and the stars too polluted to shine. It's chilly, just as you expected.

You make sure that you walk deliberately enough towards Bucky that he'll know you're coming, and indeed, when you finally stop by his side, his head tilts slightly towards you, though he doesn't look in your direction.

He's sitting in a poolside chair, fully clothed, facing westward. For a moment you stand there silently, absorbing his surge of uncertainty, then a dash of frustration that you know exactly what he's thinking, and finally weariness. Bucky is tired of much more than you might have expected, and impulsively you sit at the foot of his pool chair, facing him head on.

His surprise peaks. And he thinks you're adorable sitting there. You try not to blush.

"Bucky," you begin. "I'm sorry. It was an accident."

"Why didn't you say something sooner?" he asks, voice rough.

"I...was hoping to learn how to break the connection before you ever learned. I didn't want you to be embarrassed."

He laughs, hollowly. "Too late for that." Bucky is not exactly ashamed of his attraction to you; only that everyone knows. And he isn't keen on unreciprocated love. That's where his humiliation lies.

You shake back the sleeve of your sweater, tugging off your glove and extending your hand towards Bucky, palm up. His eyes meet yours, baffled.

"I've been experimenting," you tell him. "May I?"

Bucky hesitates, and then gives a curt nod. His implicit trust in you is staggering; his only distrust lies with himself. How very strange. But he extends his flesh hand anyway, pressing it gently into yours.

The connection is stronger with touch. You suck in a deep breath, letting your eyes close as you focus on projecting your own thoughts toward Bucky. His hand jerks as the first flow of emotion touches him; your regret for causing his pain, for everyone else discovering his secret because of you. The burden of having kept the connection a secret from him, when you'd known you should have been honest with him. Then, at last, you let him feel your own attraction to  _him;_  how much his own affection for you had influenced you, made you feel, for once in your life, even  _lovable_ , how you had begun to notice his goodness and sincerity. And how your heart speeds up in his presence.

When at last you open your eyes and draw your hand away from his, Bucky's breathing is ragged, his eyes fastened on your face.

"It's a little tiring to do that," you admit, the exhausting seeping into your bones as you slump back. "But...I suppose it's only fair. If I know your feelings, you should know mine."

Without a word, Bucky leans forward, and to your complete astonishment, presses his mouth to yours.

Oh, it's  _delicious_...even apart from the languous feelings making you tremble at the sensation, you can feel an upsurge of Bucky's response to the kiss, too - relief that you hadn't pulled away, delight, pure pleasure, and a desperate yearning finally fulfilled. Tentatively you lift a gloved hand, fingertips resting gently on his cheek as you fervently kiss him back.

Double the feelings of a first kiss is an  _extraordinary_  experience. When it's not Billy Boyer, that is. But Bucky's strain of thought is that he simply wants to make you smile. Which you do, as soon as he pulls away, and you giggle nervously as a grin spreads on his face, too.

"I didn't think a warning was...necessary?" he offers, his voice low. Dimples flicker around his mouth. His face is completely transformed when he smiles - and you  _like_  it.

"I'm pretty good at knowing what's coming," you say with a shaky laugh. "I didn't get that one, though."

"I wasn't thinking, I guess."

"I know."

He blinks, then gives a bark of laughter. "I'm not going to have any secrets from you, am I?" Bucky asks.

"Well . . . sorry."

But Bucky isn't sorry at all. You can sense that straightaway; he's relieved that he won't have to convince you of his love, of his sincerity, of his honesty. There's not a drop of worry for you discovering any infidelities (unlike your short-lived boyfriend of eleventh grade, Conner Magnus). Bucky may be hard man to know, but he does not keep secrets.

"You're like Sam," you say, out of the blue, as you consider this. "But Sam says everything he thinks. You don't, but you don't hide it, either."

Bucky snorts, unused to being analyzed this way. "I guess."

"Are you sure you don't mind my...oddities?"

He doesn't, and you know it, but that doesn't stop him from saying so. "We all have our oddities here," he says with a laugh. "The dating field in my sphere is limited. I don't have much of a chance of normal."

"We can make our own normal," you say softly.

Bucky smiles; a soft, affectionate smile that warms you straight down to your toes. "I'd like that."

You press your bare fingers to his face, impulsively letting him feel the emotions you'd felt during your kiss. It's a little vulnerable, and you feel your cheeks warm, but Bucky's eyes widen with delight. And with concentration, you send him a strain of thought,

 _Kiss me again_.

And he does.


End file.
